I recently discovered I have a six octave voice. Granted the higher 4 octaves are complete and utter crap, but they’re there, so there! Dammit, I can saaang! Or not. Turns out I sound like a cross between Barry White
Last week, in frustration, I went off in search of Karaoke, because I figured, how better to celebrate the anniversary of the auspicious occasion that was my day of birth than to sing a song of joy, in front of a bunch of strangers? Woooiiiiiiii… Folks, there’s a reason my musical career never took off back in the day (I was in a school musical once), it would appear that I can only sing three songs, and only when I’m completely sober. Throw in a bit of booze and things go pear shaped, very fast. I have vague recollection of butchering a Toni Braxton
I’ve had a crap week. A project I’m working on imploded, suddenly and without warning, and I was the idiot left to pick up the pieces, and take the flak in the process. My friend, I was shouted at by so many different people, for so many different reasons, I lost track of what fire I was putting out where. By Thursday, I was so knackered I couldn’t face the thought of another whipping, so I cleared my Friday morning and decided to get absolutely, positively shit-faced. No really, the plan was to wrap myself in a blanket on my (almost a) balcony and drink the better part of whatever bottle I’d stashed under my sink. That’s where I keep the good shit, by the way, where my good-for-nothing scrounger (not) friends will never think to look (insert bitchy laugh here………….). Slight detour, I’m tired of cheapass bastards rocking up at my door to drink my (perhaps not quite) top shelf whiskey, this when all they usually drink is day old instant whisky (no ‘e’ in the cheap stuff), the likes of Johnnie ‘engine cleaning fluid’ Red. Boss, you earn kendo three times what I do and you’re too cheap to buy single malt, or even the black thingi? Nkt! Kumbafu wewe! I’m no longer sharing the good stuff with stingy, greedy bastards, mkikuja kwangu nitakupatia VAT 69, lakini kwa chupa ya Chivas. Idiots won’t know the difference will they? Say it with me…NKT! I apologise for that bile-filled detour, that has been bothering me for a while now, but I feel better having gotten it off my chest. Moving on swiftly…
So the plan was to get very drunk, by myself. But then I thought, after the year I’ve had, surely this is the one night I should not be alone, that is simply unacceptable, no? And with that most brilliant reasoning, I put down my drink, the first of the evening mind you, cast aside my blanket, put on the 4-inch high boots and drove myself to the bar. To sing. Allow me to explain why that is significant.
First up, I’m not short. I’m not obscenely tall either, but tall enough that when I put on heels, I am, unfortunately, a couple of inches taller than the average Kenyan man (assuming the average is 5’8” or thereabouts). Now I rarely wear heels when going clubbing because it skews the field (against me) somewhat, plus they hurt like a bitch to dance in, no? But that night the heels were put on, because I was in no mood to entertain any advances of any sort, I had a mission and I was sticking to it, I was going to drink, and sing, and then drink a bit more. No dancing, on or around tables, and no getting distracted by a foolish man looking for a random midweek shag. I know, it sounds strange, but there it is, a short and possibly useless guide to not getting funga’d, I’ve learnt there’s something about having to look up at a woman that scares a man away. I’m not being height-ist, I’m just saying, there’s not too many men interested in hooking up with a taller mama, and by hooking up I mean shag. I suspect I will receive hate mail for that one, but know that if you bitch then I’ll know for sure you’re a midget (insert evil laugh here............).
The second reason I’m telling you this tale is that I don’t sing in bars, or anywhere else for that matter. Ever. I’ve only done Karaoke once before, in said bar, and I had no intention of ever repeating the experience, despite my love for a good tune. Like I said, my vocal ability is a bit suspect (perhaps more than a bit), but that’s not why I don’t like to sing in public, it’s just that I don’t like to be the centre of attention. I know, this from the woman with the borderline porno blog? Really? Yes, really, you sceptical bastards. Given the chance I’m content to remain in the background, propping up the counter, generally being nondescript to the point of invisible. I don’t go to the bar to court attention, just the opposite in fact, I go to lose myself in the crowd. The reason I went to sing on this particular night? Because the best way to put your problems into perspective, I’ve found, is to get some distance from them. When I’m in the middle of shit I can’t handle, I like to get out of my cocoon and pretend to be someone else, at least for a couple of hours, the booze helping the process of transformation (sometimes), and by the time I get back to myself I can usually see the forest from the trees. Going to sing to a room full of strangers was a break from my normally uptight, introvert self, I was going to play make-believe for a couple of hours in the hope that the break would clear my head, and it did. The fact that I was celebrating was simply an excuse to do something out of character, if not on this one day then when, right?
The last reason for the ‘I went out to sing’ tale? I don’t like strangers, at all. And I don’t go to strange bars by myself. Ever. Granted, I’d been to this bar before a couple of times, but always in the company of a certain special gentleman. I didn’t expect to meet him there (although he rocked up at one point), in fact I didn’t expect to meet anyone I knew there save for the barman, a lovely youngling who I could just eat right up (if I was in a cradle-snatching frame of mind, which I’m not, yet…). I was flying solo. I didn’t feel like calling anyone up, because I didn’t really want to talk to anyone, because that would inevitably lead to talking about my problems, the ones I was running away from. I went by myself. And it was fucking brilliant! I sat at the counter, made ‘friends’ with the lovely (yet slightly unstable) young lady next to me, then the couple on the other side, then the chaps at the next table, then the guys at the far end of the counter (two of whom I’d met on previous visits with Mr Man). Hell, by the end of the night it was practically my local, I was the (wo)man! Turns out, a willingness to humiliate yourself in front of strangers will earn you some affection, and tequila.
I’ve just realised I don’t remember where this was supposed to go. Bloody hell… I know I started this with some brilliant life lesson I intended to pass on, but now for the life of me I cannot recall what it was. Does this happen to the rest of you bloggers or am I just spectacularly crap at this shit? Ah well… Guess it wasn’t a very brilliant thought, no?
Folks, that’s how I spent the first few hours of my birthday this week, singing, nay, howling Toni Braxton and Bill Withers, among others (not including Barry White, this time), in a bar half full of strangers, and a man it would appear I will never figure out (he vexes me…), and a barman who I fear is too young to abuse, despite apparent willingness (he really is quite delicious, bloody jail bait!). I got to hear a shy girl sing the fuck out of a couple of Adele tracks, and as an added bonus, the following day I sorted out my work shit, or at least I figured out how to cope with the shit flowing my way. In my book, it was a night very well spent, no? Ladies and gentlemen, I am now old enough to tell you to bite my ass, as and well I feel so led. I’ve been around for a minute, or two, and dammit if it hasn’t been a fucking brilliant ride, perhaps occasionally just plain fucked up.
I’m assuming that when I eventually stagger out of the mess that is my week/weekend/month, I shall have something more profound to share with you, but until then, here’s to the next ‘thaate fae’!
